


Calm, Make Tranquil and Quiet

by softmoth



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Age Play, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Infantilism, M/M, Nightmares, Non-Sexual Age Play, Post The Hounds of Baskerville
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-04-18
Updated: 2013-04-18
Packaged: 2017-12-08 19:55:32
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,347
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/765360
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/softmoth/pseuds/softmoth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Something must be very wrong. Sherlock Holmes is never frightened.</p><p>(ageplay post THOB)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Calm, Make Tranquil and Quiet

**Author's Note:**

> Any and all critique is very much appreciated.

Thunder cracks just outside the moorish inn, a brilliant flash illuminating the rustic room for the briefest of seconds. But it isn't the sound, or the light, that startles a slumbering John Watson awake. It is, instead, the sound of hurried footfall- the sound of another person rushing into his room and stopping, abruptly, just at the foyer.

His door is open, it always is, and John sits up, bleary eyed, to stare at a very awake and very- _frightened? Is he frightened?_ \- Sherlock Holmes, hovering in the doorway. Rubbing the heels of his hands against tired eyes, John groans. 

"What time is- no, don't tell me. I don't want to know. This better be case related, Sherlock, because I was just in the middle of a lovely dream abou-" 

"John," Sherlock interrupts, and John stops immediately, hands falling from his face and to his sides. He can't see Sherlock well, can't make out the nuances of his expression in the dark, but the tone of the other man's voice is jarring. It's cracked, and raw, and... frightened, yes, definitely frightened. 

Something must be very wrong. Sherlock Holmes is never frightened. 

Before John can ask what's going on, Sherlock is rushing to the side of the bed and clamoring over the comforter, pressing himself urgently against John's side with all the wild hysteria of a terrified child. 

John holds Sherlock close to him and, jesus, the man is shaking like a leaf. 

"Was it the hounds?" John asks in a quiet voice. 

The positioning is awkward due to Sherlock's significant height and John's slighter stature, but John pays it no mind. He wraps both of his arms around Sherlock's shoulders, cradling him against his chest. From this angle it's easy to bury his nose into Sherlock's hair, gently trailing his mouth back and forth against the other man's curls in a soothing motion as he spoke. Sherlock's hair smells like the shampoo stocked in tiny supplied bottles along the inn's shower walls- clean, but cheap. Overly florid. 

"They aren't real, Sherlock," John murmurs. "They really, really aren't." 

"I saw them, though," Sherlock says. "You don't understand, I saw them, John. They were there. I could hear them growling, see them stalking around out there in the fog. I know they aren't real. But they _were_. My mind, my senses, they are everything. _Everything_. If I cannot even believe my own senses, if they are flawed, if there is some fault in them that I cannot control, then I can't... I won't... I cannot even trust-" 

"Listen," John insists fiercely, tightening his grip. "Sherlock, just. Breathe. And listen to me. Trust _me_ , yeah? You can do that, I know you can." 

Sherlock stiffens in John's grip, but he does not protest, so John continues. 

"You need to calm down. There was nothing there, just like there's nothing here, and even if there was a hound I wouldn't-" 

John pauses, considering whether his next choice of words would be wise, then decides to hell with it. "-I wouldn't let anything hurt you. Ok?" 

Sherlock's hands grip tightly on to the collar of John's thin cotton shirt, grey-faded and threadbare with age, and he shivers, burying his face deeper against John's neck. 

"But I SAW it," he rasps. "Oh, god, I saw it." 

"Shh, I know," John soothes. "I know. But it's all right now." 

"I need, John, please, is it alright if we...?" Sherlock swallows audibly and John immediately realizes what he is asking. He eases the other man's head carefully away from his neck to look into his stricken expression. 

John's mind may pale in comparison to the world's most brilliant consulting detective, but even he can make deductions from time to time. 

"You want your daddy, Sherlock?" 

Sherlock nods shyly, refusing to meet John's eyes. 

"Alright," John says, rubbing circles on Sherlock's back, rocking the shivering body. "It's alright now, I'm here. You're fine. Everything is fine." They've played this way before, but not often. Especially not during a case. But if this is what Sherlock needs to make peace with what happened at Baskerville then John was more than willing to oblige him. Maybe a little sleep could still be salvaged. 

And, truthfully, John wanted to do this for him tonight. There was something about Sherlock that ached to be protected, to be held back and sheltered, if only for a little while. This was a way for them to both explore that unspoken want. 

"It's ok," John repeats, tilting Sherlock's face into his for a kiss. "It's going to be ok." 

Sherlock's hands twine anxiously around John every time they kiss, a practiced ritual that always happens the same way: palm cupped against John's cheek, sliding it around his face to hold the back of his neck steady as their lips move together. John thinks it's Sherlock's way of trying to get closer... or maybe Sherlock is just afraid that John might pull away. 

* 

It doesn't take long for John to retrieve the small kit from the back of his suitcase and place it between them in the middle of the cramped Inn bed. It's a kit he packs with him almost every time the two men have to leave 221B for an extended period of time. At first he wasn't sure why he packed it with such fastidiousness whenever traveled, as it certainly wasn't used as often. After a while, he realized that the act of packing it up and bringing it along was some strange manifestation of hope- that John could take it out, that Sherlock would ask for it. That John could take care of Sherlock. 

The kit is a medium-sized briefcase bag, leather, suited most likely for carrying paperwork or perhaps a laptop. Inside, however, John keeps "Sherlock's stuff"- technically, John bought all of it himself, so the items should be "John's stuff", but it helps to think of them as Sherlock's. 

Sherlock is laying on his side facing John, watching intently as John sits down cross-legged on the bed and unclasps the bag's brass buckle, reaching inside. 

It causes a flare of warmth to unfurl in John's stomach when he takes each item out, one at a time, and presents them to a wide-eyed Sherlock. 

The first item is a pacifier, a small, understated thing- the shield is white and plain, attached to a clear silicone nipple that Sherlock accepts happily between parted lips when John taps it gently against his mouth. Sherlock shifts it around with his tongue until it settles comfortably against his mouth. 

"There you go," John says, because it feels like the right thing to say. He trails the back of his knuckles against Sherlock's cheek and Sherlock's eyelashes flutter, gaze unfocused and far away as he sucks. He looks genuinely relaxed, for the first time that night. Thank god. 

The next item John hands over with a bit more reverence, as it's quite worn and tattered round the edges. It's a felted square blanket, only big enough to cover half an adult-sized chest, but Sherlock drapes it across himself anyway, tucking it mostly under his chin and nuzzling it against the side of his face between cheek and pillow. 

It's soft, and blue, and some areas are worn through so thoroughly that they are nearly translucent. John leans over and takes a velvety corner between his fingers, gently trailing it along the side of Sherlock's face until Sherlock's eyes begin to slip closed. 

John decides to let Sherlock nap a while, at least until morning. The last item in his kit- the bottle, as plain and understated as the pacifier currently falling from sleep-lax lips- could wait until morning. 

And John finds himself hoping beyond all hope that, come morning, all Sherlock's thoughts of red-eyed hounds, hellish nightmares, and doubting his own senses will float away as easily as dreams. 

Because John has killed for this man. Gone to unspeakable lengths to protect this man. And he'll be damned if he's going to let something like an imaginary dog hurt Sherlock Holmes in any way.


End file.
